Night Jasmine (14 page)

She started down the steps, then stopped as her father called from inside.

“Aimee! Wait,
chère!
”

Biting back a sound of annoyance, Aimee went back up the steps. She dropped her portfolio and purse on one of the rocking chairs, and peeked back inside the store. “You need something, Papa?”

“I'm glad I caught you.” He motioned her inside.

Drawing her eyebrows together, she stepped through the door, letting the screen slam shut behind her. “What's wrong? Has something happened to one of the family?”

“Non.”
He held up his hands. “Everyone's fine. I need you to wheel me back to the house. I forgot my medication.”

Annoyance at his request rippled over her. Guilty over it, she started toward him, ready to do his bidding. Hunter's words raced into her head, and she stopped.
“You're not helping him by coddling him, Aimee. If he's ever going to get better, he's going to have to start doing things for himself.”

“chère?”

“Lose the guilt, Aimee. It's not doing either of you any good.”

Aimee hesitated a moment more, struggling with that very thing. It was easy for Hunter to hand out advice, she thought. It wasn't
his
father in the wheelchair. It wasn't his father who had lost his sense of purpose, his reason for living. But still, Hunter's words had struck a chord of truth in her.

She wanted her father to get better. Didn't she?

Yes. She wanted that more than anything. Coming to a decision, Aimee took a deep breath and looked evenly at her father. “Why don't you wheel yourself over? I've got a full day of stops to make, and I need to get going.”

Roubin stared at her, obviously surprised. Then he frowned. “But I need my medication. It will take you barely a minute.”

Aimee hesitated again, torn between doing what she knew was right and feeling like she was betraying her father. She firmed her resolve and forced an easy smile. “You're perfectly capable of wheeling yourself across, Papa. You do it all the time.” She checked her watch. “I should be back in plenty of time for supper.”

“Why do you defy me?” Roubin demanded. “You know how difficult it is for me in this chair. It is easier for you to take me across. It is faster.”

Guilt pulled at her. It
was
easier,
was
faster. He did have to fight his way across. But wasn't that the point?

Aimee cleared her throat. “I do too much for you. We both know it.”

“You are being a good, dutiful daughter. That is all.” He lifted a big hand to indicate the subject was closed. “Now, you will wheel me across.”

“No, Papa, I won't.” Aimee crossed to him, squatting down in front of the chair so their eyes would be on the same level. She smiled gently. “You're never going to get better if I keep doing everything for you. And I want you to get better.”

Roubin clenched his hands into fists. “I'm never going to get better. This we both know.”

“That's not what Dr. Landry says. Or Hunter.” She stiffened her spine against the bitterness that tightened his features and covered his hands with her own. “I'm not going to coddle you any more. You're going to start doing some things for yourself.”

“You would not talk to me so, if I weren't chained to this chair. You would have some respect!”

“I never had any respect. Remember?” She smiled, hoping to lighten his mood, wishing she could make him laugh the way Hunter could. “You used to wonder why
le bon Dieu
cursed you with such an ungrateful, mouthy daughter.”

Roubin didn't reply. Instead, he withdrew his hands from hers and slowly, clumsily turned the chair away from her and started for the rear of the store. Aimee watched him go, tears stinging her eyes. He looked old and defeated. And so alone.

He'd lost everything. And now he felt she'd abandoned him as well.

Would it cost so much to do as he asked? she wondered. Wheeling him across, getting him his medications and a glass of water to take them with, was such a simple thing; it would take only minutes. Was it worth hurting him over?

Aimee curled her fingers into her palms, battling the urge to race after him. Wheeling him across now wasn't the issue, she reminded herself. The problem wasn't doing something for him once and awhile, but doing everything all the time. She didn't like to admit it, but Hunter was right. She would be a fool or completely self-destructive not to listen.

But even knowing it was for the best, denying her father hurt like hell.

Shaken, Aimee headed back out front to collect her things. She found Hunter there, leafing through her portfolio. She stopped, immediately angry at his presumption. How dare he look through her things without invitation? she thought, her heart beginning to thrum against the wall of her chest. How dare he?

She let the screen door slam noisily shut behind her. Hunter looked up, meeting her gaze. Instead of apology or embarrassment in his eyes, she saw disappointment. On the heels of what she'd just gone through with her father, the last thing she wanted or needed was a confrontation with Hunter. Working to control her anger, she stiffened her spine. “I don't believe I gave you permission to look through my portfolio.”

“No wonder.” He slipped one of the photos out of its sleeve and held it up. She'd taken it at a
fais-dodo;
it depicted a Cajun couple doing the two-step. “What is this, Aimee?”

She jerked her chin up, heat tinging her cheeks. “They sell well. The money is nice.”

“You're too good to be doing this crap, technically excellent though it is.”

“Excuse me,” she said icily. “But I didn't ask for a critique. But then, I shouldn't be surprised. You're good at handing out unwanted advice.” Telling herself she felt nothing but outrage, she marched across the gallery and held out
her hand. “Butt out, Hunter.”

He ignored her. “What happened to the artist who captured heart and soul with the eye of a camera? What happened to the visionary who believed in herself and her art, and was willing to go to the wall for it?”

Aimee narrowed her eyes, thinking of that girl and hating him for it. Hating that she felt like she had to explain, make excuses. “She needed to make a living. She needed to support her son. Give me the photo, Hunter. I'm late.”

“Isn't the truth more that she was frightened away by a few critics' disparaging remarks? Isn't the truth more that she let a bunch of creeps who could only dream of having a fraction of her talent scare her away?”

A trembling started deep inside her and spread, until even her fingertips shook. She told herself she was angry. Furious. She knew it was hurt, and disappointment in herself, that made her shake.

“You have no idea,” she said softly, cursing the tremor in her voice, “what I felt back then. Or why I ran. You were too wrapped up in your own misery to understand mine. You still are.”

Aimee grabbed for the photo just as Hunter pulled his hand back. The photo ripped down the center, the smiling, dancing couple forever torn asunder. Aimee gazed at the mutilated image, making a sound of distress. And surprise. She lifted her gaze to meet Hunter's. He, too, stared at the ripped photo, his expression startled.

He met her eyes. “Aimee…damn. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…”

He took a step toward her, hand out in a apology. She took a step back, lifting her chin, battling for control, for nonchalance. It took everything she had, but she managed both. “Don't worry about it. I have six more just like it.” She relaxed her fingers, and her half of the torn photo fluttered to the gallery floor. Without glancing at it again, she collected her things and walked away.

Hunter watched her go, not looking away until her car had disappeared from sight. Then he lowered his gaze to the photo, its ragged, ripped edge mocking him. What had he hoped to accomplish by badgering her? he wondered, gazing at the image. What did he hope to accomplish by being here? He frowned. Did he think he could fix Aimee's life? Was that why he was here? Hell, he couldn't even fix his own.

He stooped and picked up the piece of the photograph she'd dropped. Uncanny how the photo had ripped directly down its center, forever rending the man and woman from each other's arms.

His frown deepening, Hunter fitted the two halves of the photo together. No matter how carefully he tried to piece one half to the other, the rip still showed.

It couldn't be fixed.

It would never be whole or without flaw again.

Hunter looked at his hands. A doctor's hands. Hands used to heal. Hands adroit enough, sensitive enough, to locate a person's pain simply through the sense of touch. But he hadn't helped Aimee. In fact, he'd complicated her life. Made her unhappier.

Maybe he should go, he thought, drawing his eyebrows together. He could stay in contact with Aimee and who knew, he might someday be able to convince her to take support for Oliver. Someday she might realize she needed it.

From the side of the house, he heard Oliver's laughter and his throat tightened. He'd grown accustomed to the boy's presence. To the sound of his laughter, to his childish enthusiasm and wide-eyed curiosity. He would miss that, Hunter realized. He would miss it a lot.

A moment later the boy barreled into view, Tante Marie lumbering behind.
“Loup garou!”
Oliver cried. “Help!”

Marie growled and bared her teeth, and Hunter laughed at the sight. The
loup garou
was the Cajun werewolf and Oliver's favorite monster. And no wonder, Hunter thought, amused. Both his grandfather and aunt filled his head with tales of the beast.

Marie growled again, gaining on the boy; Oliver squealed in delighted terror. Laughing, Hunter squatted down and held out his arms. “Here, Oliver. I'll protect you.”

A second later Oliver was in his arms, pressed against his chest, clinging to him. Hunter stood, wrapping himself tightly around the child. Oliver's small body trembled with manufactured fear and with laughter; he was warm and smelled like a boy who had been playing hard.

Hunter breathed deeply. How many times had he held Pete like this? A hundred? A thousand? Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, the memories filling his head—of Pete crying out in the night, of going to him, of holding and rocking him.

“Daddy has you, Pete. Don't worry, baby. Daddy won't let anything hurt you. Not ever.”

Pete had believed him. Had trusted him. But Hunter hadn't protected his baby, hadn't been there when the monster had come to call. Had Pete thought of that in his final minutes? Had his last thought been that his daddy had betrayed him?

Anguish hit Hunter in a debilitating wave. With the anguish came the smell of the fire, the sickening scent of death. The image of Pete in the morgue.

“Where are you, Daddy? I'm scared. I need you.”

“Daddy's here. I'll never let anything happen to you, Pete. Not ever.”

Pain knotted in Hunter's chest, and he fought to hold back the cry of pain. He held Oliver tighter, as if to let go of him would be to let go of life.

Dear God. Why not me instead? Why not me—

Oliver leaned back in Hunter's arms. “Get you now,” he said, curving his hands into claws and growling in his imitation of the werewolf. “Monster coming!”

Hunter stared blankly at the boy, his memories mixing with Oliver's words. One second became ten; Hunter's head began to clear.

“Get you now,” the boy said again. “Better run.”

Hunter blinked. The nightmare image of Pete shifted, then evaporated; he suddenly saw Oliver's face before his own. Clearly and as if for the first time. He's so beautiful, Hunter thought, a place deep inside him opening. So special and bright.

The tightness in his chest eased, then filled with something warm and light. Hunter's mouth lifted into a smile. The smile led to a laugh, one that sprang from the very center of his being.

Oliver frowned. “No laugh! Monster!” He growled again.
“Loup garou!”

Hunter laughed again, unable to hold it back. It pressed against his insides, occupying the same space the pain had only moments before, shouting to be released. Hunter threw his head back and laughed up at the heavens, laughing until his eyes ran and his sides ached.

* * *

“Wind again,” Oliver demanded, watching the music box's belle come slowly to a stop. He looked up at Hunter, sitting on the porch step beside him. “I like it. Pretty.”

Hunter smiled and did as the child asked, even though he'd rewound the box a half dozen times already. As the belle inside the dome began once again to circle the base, Oliver giggled.

A week had passed since the afternoon he'd held Oliver and laughed until he cried. In those moments, something had happened to him. Something warm. Something bright.

He didn't know if what he'd felt had been some sort of miracle or only a brief respite from the cold. But whichever, the last seven days had been the best, the most relaxed, since he'd lost Ginny and Pete. Hunter smiled. In fact, he'd felt, ridiculously, as if anything were possible. Even happy endings.

Hunter touched Oliver's silky hair, gently stroking for a moment. He'd enjoyed Oliver's company. Thoroughly. Without nightmarish remembrances of Pete. Without the guilt and regrets that had torn at him before.

He liked the boy. He was bright and gentle and kind. He wasn't as rugged and outgoing as Pete had been, but then Pete hadn't been as thoughtful or curious. As Aimee had said to him weeks before, they were two very different children and shouldn't be compared.

Aimee called out from the wheelchair path, and both he and Oliver looked up. She and Roubin were headed toward them, Roubin with a large picnic basket on his lap. Oliver had been burbling about this upcoming picnic for several days now, and beside him the child began to bounce with excitement.

“I better take this inside, Tiger,” Hunter said, plucking the music box from Oliver's hands. “Be right back.”